Keep It Together
by LankySundown
Summary: Haymitch knows he's delusional, but he still holds onto his quiet affection for the Girl on Fire.
1. Chapter 1

*This is just an updated version, as I was rereading last night and found an annoying typo that threw the story off for me. But hey. While I'm at it, I'm also thinking about extending this one-shot another chapter at least, through the interviews for instance. If you'd like to see it, tell me so in the reviews and I'll be much more likely to deliver :P but seriously..

AN: I know this scene didn't happen in the movie, but this is basically a Hayniss-inspired rewrite of Chapter 26 of _The Hunger Games_. No spoilers per se, but includes allusions to Haymitch info from Catching Fire, FYI. Also, SO to my roommate for having _The Hunger Games_ in her "to read" pile. SNATCHED THAT SHIT to expound detail.

Disclaimer: Totally and completely placed in Suzanne's Collins' scene, with her characters, her dialogue, my thoughts in Haymitch's head. Just to reiterate, **all the dialogue is hers, directly from the book.** I own nada.

So all that, and if you have thoughts in your head (good or bad) after reading this, I'd love to hear!

* * *

Keep It Together.

She thought like him. She was clever, and she was a survivor. They understood each other. He liked that about her. It made getting her through her Games a piece of cake. More or less. Because she'd read his messages. Sometimes took her a while, but she sure did get them all right. She'd performed perfectly. He thought he understood her, could read her perfectly.

But really, he'd underestimated her.

Maybe it was from so many years living as detached from his Tributes as possible. Maybe he shouldn't have overlooked how this year, they both ganged up on him on the first train to the Capitol. How it had taken both of them to convince him he had some tributes worth sobering for.

They'd changed him. He cared this time around, maybe a little too much, and that made him return to his former self. His sixteen-year-old self that had used his wit to outsmart the Capitol. Because that was the only way he knew how to survive.

Surviving. He and she, that's what they were both good for. But now, he may have ruined her chances at that just by being associated with her. The Capitol, they might draw some delusional connection between his Games and hers, and with the talk he'd been hearing around the place already, he couldn't afford to take any more chances. He had to warn her.

So he slips past the makeshift wall underneath the interview stage where Flickerman is undoubtedly flicking his blue ponytail for the audience already. Haymitch slides in behind her as the Girl on Fire waits, fidgeting, for her final interview. Her victor's interview.

Her last act.

Her hair is down, and she's wearing a light, shimmering yellow dress. The style seems almost childish to him but she looks… pretty.

He reaches out a hand and finds her bare shoulder, not surprised when she leaps away in response. If she'd had a knife on her it'd probably be in his throat right now. Tribute reflexes - he knew them well.

"Easy," he laughs lightly, feeling as if he's calming a spooked horse. "Just me. Let's have a look at you." She spins, arms out, and the soft shimmer melts into a glow when she does it. He hopes she can't see the shimmering in his own eyes when he responds, "Good enough."

But she knows him too well. Knows he's holding something back.

"But what?"

He takes in a breath, lets it out. Loosens his obnoxious bowtie as an excuse to let his eyes scan the room. He can't say anything here, not directly, not with that new wall just rebuilt that could be hiding who knows what, the smell of sawdust and fresh paint still lingering, so instead he says, "But nothing. How about a hug for luck?" It's completely out of character. He hopes she goes with it anyway.

She does.

In fact, she slides her arms around his neck, making the gesture more intimate than he'd intended, but also making his job easier as he leans his face towards hers in the embrace. He should've learned by now never to doubt her ability to _get_ him.

But when he nestles his lips close to her ear and the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, he wonders how much she _actually_ gets him. With no time to waste on how this incredibly brave, incredibly beautiful, incredibly stupid sixteen-year-old girl is reacting to his closeness, Haymitch starts whispering with the gravest urgency.

_She's in danger. That stunt she pulled with the berries had forced her hand upon the Capitol. _And Haymitch didn't say it, but he'd been in her position before. It did not end well._ Her life, Peeta's life, and the life of everyone she loved was in grave danger. _

She tosses her head back to laugh, and only Haymitch knows what the laugh really means. Fear.

"So what?" Her lips are not shadowed like his are. That laugh was also a cover, a defense mechanism. They both know that, but no one else has to.

_She had better pull off this star-crossed lovers act, and do it well._

He stands back now. To linger nearer if for only a moment, he reaches out to adjust her yellow headband.

"Got it, sweetheart?" Haymitch is unusually great masking emotion, and can only hope he's doing it successfully this time. Because, for the first time in the last twenty-four years, Haymitch realizes he has something to lose. And he wasn't so sure the alcohol would be content with its role as crutch this time around. Hell, he wasn't sure he'd want it to.

"Got it," she says. It's a loaded two words. Maybe a stray trace of fear, of uncertainty, but more than anything, it is acknowledgement. Understanding. And acceptance of a burden. A big one.

Haymitch couldn't waste time worrying after a response like that. Hell, if she could pull off the Peeta thing just like she was pulling off ease and nonchalance here, she was golden.

Then she's speaking again. "Did you tell Peeta this?"

At her words, his heart does this strange kind of thumping, swirling pattern where he's semi-aware that he could be having a heart attack until he realizes. What these words mean is that the girl doesn't love the boy with the bread. His heart has registered its chance. But he's too old, too austere, too constantly drunk to let his mind even consider it. Besides, she _needs_ to love the boy. It'd be best for everyone if she did, because Haymitch doesn't know how long such a charade can be played out. So he responds to her disguisedly innocent questions, barely noticing his words or hers as her fingertips rise up to his neck, straightening his obnoxiously red bowtie.

He wants to trap her in his arms again and never let go, but he simply proceeds. Lives on like he should as her coach, her mentor, who she never really listens to but pays attention to when it counts. Besides, she knows how to act. To mask emotion, at least. What if all of this was just in his head? Somehow he was certain that it was. Because she was young. She was on fire. And had to love the boy, had to light the crowd on fire tonight.

"This is your night, sweetheart," he says, letting the fondness creep into his voice just this once. "Enjoy it." He takes the last moment he can spare to lean over and kiss her on the forehead before vanishing down the hall en route to his own platform. His fingers fly to his bow tie unconsciously, wanting to loosen it, but he stops once they grip the fabric. She'd wanted him to look nice. He wasn't going to mess that up.

And then the buzzer sounds, and he emerges onto the stage in front of the Capitol crazies, bowing his head under the harsh lights, glad for once he isn't drunk out of his mind or else he'd've fallen off the stage already.

Because this time, he's got to keep it together. For them.

For her.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: My chapter here follows Chapter 27 of The Hunger Games, (disclaimer, Suzanne Collins owns the series, not me). The chapter has a lot of scenes and a lot going on, so this may be a little choppy/hard to place if you haven't read the book in a while. Or not, I hope, lol. Once again, all of the dialogue is directly out of the book, ie Suzanne Collins' pen/mind.

* * *

She appears on stage at the exact moment that the boy does. From before their hatches even opened, the crowd was beyond deafening. I scowled, wanting to get my hands on some of Ripper's hard stock alcohol to burn out the sound, but then my eyes landed on her.

She looked exactly like a flower. A pretty, docile yellow flower that just stood there, swaying unsteadily for a split second, blinking hard under the blinding lights. She's looking for Peeta, and when she sees him, seems to be taken aback a bit. Reality setting in, maybe. But on the upside, she only has eyes for him. And for good reason, he looks pretty good as his re-vamped self, and like a damn bumble bee in the yellow coat and black pants Cinna's put him in. He shimmers, too. But it's not the work of the fabric. It's his face. At seeing Katniss.

She takes three small steps toward him, tentative, and my mind is almost dry-heaving _RUN! RUN TO HIM!,_ thinking that she had better do it quick or else she'd lose precious credibility for this little scheme of ours.

But of course, she picks up her speed. And in a flash she's propelling into him, nearly toppling the boy over with his new leg and all. She never thinks, does she? It's all impulse with that girl. I shake my head, grinning a little despite myself. The flower and her bee. It's genius, actually. I realize that some camera somewhere must be on me, so I shrug off my public display of emotion; showing a little happiness can't hurt right now. If anything it'll improve the charade.

Because I _am_ happy. If happy was something that I still had the capacity to feel. I got two victors out alive. That is something, well, to be terrified of, one, but on the other hand, something to be damn cocky about. But for some reason, I _couldn't_ be happy. Not at this. What was happening, at the girl and the boy being forced to love each other for the rest of eternity because of these damned Games... But I can't think about that today. No, I have to focus on the performance. Well, only a performance for one of them, I should say.

The boy is kissing her now that he's righted his balance, all lovey-dovey and clinging to her like she's life itself (which really isn't far from the truth, for him), and I think, _it's a good thing we've got this kid on board_. He's playing every card exactly like he should. Just look at the way he's kissing her… kissing her…

And I realize that this has been going on for quite a while, my calculating and their kissing, and even though the crowd can't get enough of it, Caesar taps Bread Boy on the shoulder. He gets strong-armed away and while one part of me is cheering at this pure gold Peeta's displaying, another part of me just wants them to stop. Now. Or better yet, ten minutes ago.

So I saunter over, unnoticed by Lover Boy, and give the kid sharp shove towards the couches. That finally gets him to peel his face away from hers and turns to smirk at me before letting Katniss pull him to the couch. I swear, sometimes I think that bastard thinks he knows something.

_This acting is as hard for me as it is for little miss fireball over there_, I decide, as I settle back onto my stool amongst the District 12 dog and pony show. Even sitting next to the Trinket the Clown (did they always make me sit by her to force some kind of good humor out of me? If so, fuck them. I'm sure everyone can see how well that's working out.), I can't help but scowl as they settle in on the love seat, Katniss practically sitting on top of the boy.

_His leg, Katniss_, I'm thinking. That's what I tell myself I'm thinking at least. Because it's suddenly too dangerous to put words to what I'm _actually_ thinking, what some small part of my brain is registering when she puts on the moves like that, making me believe she really does love him back or something, when she's told me over and over that she doesn't know, thinks it's all an act….

She glances over at me then, and I know she's looking for approval. Well, in this moment, with these thoughts circulating in my head, I'm sure my expression denies it. Sorry, Sweetheart.

But then what does she do? She thinks my not-so-sunny disposition means she's not trying hard enough. _Honey, have you ever heard of trying too hard?_, I internally groan as she kicks off her delicate shoes and folds up her legs, resting her head on Peeta's shoulder.

Now it's fair to say that my blood's boiling with something.

But she's a genius. A disillusioned one, but a genius nonetheless. I can literally hear the crowd sighing as she does it.

They begin to roll the footage then, and I cringe, knowing how hard it is to watch the chariots rolling through with the dead kids all happy and alive on-screen. Katniss flinches, ever so slightly, when Rue and Thresh wheel out, and I see her grip Peeta's free hand with both of hers, almost like she's willing him to make her stay there, so she doesn't run off to free herself from this torture.

Because it is torture. Every last second of it. Not so much for anyone but Katniss. Peeta, he was blinded by love throughout the Games. He had a righteous purpose that kept his emotions out of it. And he barely killed anyone. But Katniss, I know, felt the blow of every cannon somewhere deep down in her being. And she tried not to, but she was showing every bit of it now. Or maybe I was the only one picking up on that. Mentor's instict, I guess you'd pawn it off as. Because I'm feeling every blow along with her.

So there's the Games, that, and they play out the story of the star-crossed lovers in full, down to every last memorable detail. Katniss looks pitiful at first, Peeta holding all the weight, until the alliance announcement comes on. Then she starts to pick up steam. In fact, there's quite a lot of steam. By the end of the thing, I'm wondering if she actually _is_ in love with the boy. Maybe I've missed something. And I'm thinking this is a good thing; she'd be so much safer.

Next stop is Snow's Mansion, a place that constantly smells of blood and roses just like the man himself, where the Victory Banquet is to be held. The two are constantly berated by Snow's guests, so much so they can barely eat, but better yet, so they can barely talk. Which is key.

No, she didn't let go of the boy's hand all night, but the way she hadn't changed around him, the way he _had_ around her, was becoming ever more apparent to me as I circled them all night long. She cared about the boy, sure, that was obvious… but in love with him? She wasn't. And I sure as hell hoped I was the only one that knew it. Because she desperately needed to be, because I don't put any stock in her acting, especially not if she knows Lover Boy is the real deal. So I couldn't let them talk to each other, not in private at least. If he even so much as tried to kiss her, it'd be game over. The Games might be over, but I still feel an overpowering need to keep her alive.

It's sunrise when we head back the Training Center penthouse, and as long as the rest of the team is in the elevator, the hallways, the floor with them, we're safe. But I can't let them be alone together, so when we arrive on the floor, I send Peeta off to his room with Portia, pronto. Let her come up with some excuse for keeping him away from her. Me, I put my hand on Katniss's back and direct her to her room. Before going in for the night though, she turns on me and asks, "why can't I talk to him?"

_Because you'll ruin everything, sweetheart_, I want to say, but bite my tongue and leave it at, "Plenty of time to talk when we get home." She gives me a look like she doesn't quite believe me. "Go to bed," I urge, waving a hand at her room, "you're on air at two."

After the final interview, the one that's done in our floor of the Training Center, I'm nervous. _She's_ a mess, I can tell, because she still doesn't know how she feels about the boy, because she's so worried about making a mistake, so worried about losing her sister, and anyone else that she may just love. Caesar signs off and I know she'll be coming to me for strategy, for a game plan, for assurance. She finally slips over to me and whispers, "Okay?", not even looking at me.

So I couldn't tell her that I could see right through her, not now. Besides, maybe that was all in my head, just like before. So instead, I look down at her, all tired out and hurting, but still beautiful. I tilt her chin up to me, looking her in the eyes. That way, when I answer, "Perfect," I'm not lying. She may not have pulled off the star-crossed lovers deal so solidly as to make us safe beyond all doubt, but she was perfect in other ways. I was not lying about that.

The next day starts our trek back to District 12. I would call it home, but it's a little difficult to call a hellhole such. I'm trying to enjoy myself as much as possible on this last leg of luxury, stocking up on Capitol liquor and sneaking as much of I as I can back to my compartment and into my travel bags. But these kids, they keep me busy trying to keep them apart. I figure I should just let it be, now that they don't have to play lovers again until the Tour, but something bad stirs in my gut whenever I think of them _talking_. So I try to drown it out with more liquor.

When I feel the train jolt to a stop for refueling, I take the opportunity to stick my spinning head out the window. It's shrubby wherever we are. Probably not far from District 12 as I can recognize some of the plantlife.

I decide a walk would be good for me, and jiggle the door to my compartment until I practically fall out onto the ground. I better work on that… for our arrival, you know. Finally coming back a hero and all. If I'm drunk when I get off the train, maybe it'll be seen as a warning to 12. _We may have a victor or two, but that sure as hell doesn't mean we're safe. _I doubt they'd see it as that, though. Hell, I'm never thanked for anything in that place. Maybe it's got something to do with letting their children die for twenty-five years.

So I'm thinking and drinking and walking down the length of the train when I hear the voices. Just two of them, barely saying anything. I round the corner to the end of the train and see my Tributes, hand in hand, a bouquet of flowers in Katniss's grasp. Being a sentimental man, I stroll over and put a hand on her back. She practically jumps five feet in the air, so I keep my voice quiet when I say, "Great job, you two. Just keep it up in the district until the cameras are gone. We should be okay."

There. That should get them to talking. I pretended to amble off, but stayed behind the train just a fraction longer, doubt starting to mix with the alcohol in my system as I caught bits and pieces of their conversation.

_What's he mean?_

_It's the Capitol. They didn't like our stunt with the berries._

_What? What are you talking about? …Coaching you? But not me. _

_Aw, hell, here it comes_, I think.

_So what you're saying is, these last few days and then I guess… back in the arena… that was just some strategy you two worked out. _

Fuckfuckfuckfuck I didn't want to hear this, but there was something keeping me rooted there, waiting for her response, because it was true, it was all true. It _was_ a strategy, one to keep them alive, and it had worked, hadn't it?

_It was all for the Games. How you acted._

And I know he knows, and she knows he knows, and I'm not sure what I exactly know even from watching it all, these teenagers and their raging hormones, but I know it can't be good. And I watch them quietly on the rest of the train ride home to 12. It's different now. _He's_ different now. Not noticeably, maybe, but I notice. He's got his guard up again. Like somebody went in and broke something, and now he's got to stand guard. And suddenly, I know that we're no longer safe. And she's no longer going to come to me for anything. All she's going to be thinking about is him, I know it, and somehow, it drives a dagger right through me. _This will probably be the last time I see her until the Victory Tour_, I think. That is, if we all make it that far.

* * *

AN: I'm feeling iffy about this extension. Please throw glass at me in reviews so I can polish things up and get them headed in the right direction in case I extend this FURTHER... (which is kind of IP right now..) :D


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Okay kids, this is where the literal plot gets a little non-cannon. Just a little, for my own [plot] devices. Otherwise, I'm still following the general structure of the book, and the italicized quotes are from Suzanne Collins's pen per _Catching Fire_. As for THG the series, I own nothing. I just like writing around them.

* * *

It was summer. Or at least, the beautiful time of the year in which I have a reprieve from any duties having to do with the Games and mentoring and the Capitol and all the other shit I'm forced to deal with as Victor. Usually it's even more beautiful than it is right now though, because usually it's longer. This year my holiday is cut short. I have to take my new fellow Victors on a damn Victory Tour, you know. But this year, my vacation's been less-than-rosy for another reason, and, of course, it has to do with the Games. Even more than that, it has to do with Katniss Everdeen. Or rather, the lack of her.

Because I lost her the day she lost the boy.

So the Tour, it's creeping up on me slowly, and I can feel it coming on not only from the increase of calls from that damn Trinket, but from a kind of tension building up inside me. As it nears, I just keep getting this bad feeling. Anxiety over taking some rebellious, high-risk teenagers all around the country, maybe. Teenagers who haven't talked to me or each other since our arrival here.

I guess that isn't _entirely_ true, though.

I mean, I've seen them around. Katniss in the Hob, usually glaring in my direction as I frequent Ripper's stand or sit eating a bowl of stew at Sae's. Peeta coming by weekly to bring me bread, grudgingly at first, still holding against me the fact that I didn't include him in my Katniss Mentoring techniques. He got over that pretty quick though. He's too nice of guy to hold a grudge I suppose.

But Katniss, damn. Sure, she came by every once in a while with some game for me – not on any kind of schedule like Peeta had – but she barely ever said a word to me. Just gave me the silent treatment for my sins. I can't blame her for that. Figure I deserve it. I just hope we can get everything back to some semblance of normal before the cameras start rolling again.

But then…

…there's the Quarter Quell announcement.

It's the first time in a while that bread boy and I really sit down and _talk_. It's really quite painful, and I keep trying to drink my way out of it, but he starts getting physical in his protests to that.

He's just so in love with her. It breaks my heart to see this kid ready to die for somebody out of puppy love. I end up pacifying him and pushing him out my door, wanting time alone to settle into a nice, hazy mis-reality with my booze. I'm just about there when my door bangs open a second time.

Well, it didn't bang open the first time, but the banging part tells me who it is.

It's her.

Of course. _Now_ she comes to see me.

_"Ah, there she is. All tuckered out. Finally did the math, did you, sweetheart? Worked out you won't be going in alone? And now you're here to ask me... what?"_ I'm laying it on thick. I'm pissed, so fucking angry with the Capitol for punishing her in this way, so mad at her for punishing herself equally, so pissed that she hasn't said a word to me for months. I knew she'd come to ask for something just like the boy did, but even after I give her the chance, she's not able to admit to what she wants. She's having a hard time bringing herself to do what she feels she must, for a debt or for honor's purpose, because it's just so hard to come to terms with dying for someone else when you don't even love them.

_Speak, Katniss, speak. _

But she doesn't, so I go on.

_"I'll admit, it was easier for the boy. He was here before I could snap the seal on a bottle. Begging me for another chance to go in. But what can you say?"_ I mimic her voice, I'm _that_ drunk. _"Take his place, Haymitch, because all things being equal, I'd rather Peeta had a crack at the rest of his life than you?" _

I hardly even know what I'm saying, all I know is that I'm talking at her, talking, wanting her to say something, and I can't stop. But when I say that, and her face screws up, I realize it's not just words anymore, that I've actually said something that is, to some extent, true. This is what she _must_ think. The look on her face tells me so.

But she still won't admit to anything. All she says is, _"I came for a drink."_

Well that catches me off guard. So I throw my head back and laugh at her, pushing the bottle across the table in her direction where she grabs it up and puts it to her lips, taking a big long sip. Until she comes up sputtering.

I didn't even think about it, but this is the stuff that tastes like fire if you drink it straight up sober, so while she's choking on it I'm wondering if maybe it was a bad move adding fire to her flame like this. But she looks up at me, flames in her eyes, and I see it's only made her feistier. Well… good.

_"Maybe it should be you. You hate life anyway,"_ she spits out, pulling up a chair and plunking fiercely down into it. I eye her warily; drunkenly.

_"Very true. And since last time I tried to keep _you_ alive... seems like I'm obligated to save the boy this time."_ Yeah, well, obligation never meant much to me. But she goes with it.

_"That's another good point."_ She drinks again, and I feel like this is wrong, like I should stop her, but who am I to do that? Besides, it's kinda nice having a drinking buddy for once, even if it is a prickly Katniss. So I take a deep breath, tell her like it is:

"_Peeta's argument is that since I chose you, now I owe him. Anything he wants. And what he wants is the chance to go in again to protect you." _

It's true, every word. She winces, knowing it has to be. Her face is turning pink around the edges. She's feeling it, that feeling you get when you're in someone's debt and they've got this hold over you and you can't say no… But Peeta's not a bad guy. We both know that. It's just that none of us in 12 are worthy of him.

"_You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, you know."_ I say it as comfort, but obviously I'm not very good in that department so she probably thinks I'm just trying to make her mad.

"_Yeah, yeah. No question he's the superior one in this trio." _She waves it away. Getting down to business, she turns it back to me. _"So what are you going to do?"_

This is where I have to drink more. But I don't, knowing it won't hit me fast enough to answer, so I let out this big breath I didn't know I'd been holding, working the bridge of my nose between my fingers as I lean over the table to my right.

"I don't know, go back in with you maybe, if I can." Because I really do plan on that. I just know that it's not my decision to make. Whoever's name comes out of that reaping ball, the other one will volunteer for him. That's the way it's going to be. So I tell her so. We sit in silence for a while while I'm trying to keep a flood of memories and images at bay, so I try to focus on the girl sitting across from me, holding the bottle, want to drown myself in it. _No, not yet, _some voice whispers at me from my own head._ You gotta stay strong for her. Get her through this one last time. Keep her alive._ Well I know that.

_"It'd be bad for you in the arena, wouldn't it?" _she finally breaks the silence._ "Knowing all the others?"_

I look her in the face, then, and shake my head. _"Oh, I think we can count on it being unbearable wherever I am."_ The thought makes my head spin. Katniss, along with one of us, back in the arena again. With so many lethal killers, experienced Victors. Not just kids anymore. I needed more drink.

_"Can I have that back now?"_ I nod at the bottle.

_"No."_ She hugs the thing into her like a small, greedy child. A thought about prying it from her passes through my head, but I just shrug and pull the seal off another nearby bottle. I tip it to her in a toast before tipping it to my lips. I think we're about to hurdle headlong into another of those silences, but after a few breaths she takes in a big one and starts talking.

Asking me what she's been working up the courage all night to do.

She wants to keep him alive.

And I'd been dancing around the conclusion for about year now, but it only hits me when she forces me to face it head-on: Him, or her? But truth is, as long as I have anything to do with it, there is _no_ way she is not coming out of that arena alive. I will _always_ choose her over the boy.

I know I'm frowning, staring into my bottle as she talks, as if I can climb inside and not have to answer her, answer her with a lie, with what she wants to hear, but I've done the lying before and she trusts me – why does she trust me like this? – and I know she'll take my word for it. She wants me to keep the boy alive, even if it means her life?

"_All right," _I lie.

She relaxes visibly.

"_Thanks,"_ is all she says. It's only then that we settle into another long silence, interrupted by a stare-down as we both try to outlast each other chugging from our respective bottles. I win, though I'm pretty sure she drained hers dry before she was ready to quit. She looks down at the bottle, and I sense movement in her, and she's pushing herself up, from the table, stumbling a little as the alcohol catches up with her, stumbles over to where I'm sitting. And I know it's probably a bad idea considering how gone she already is, but I hold the bottle out to her anyway, barely noticing when she brushes it to the side since I'm pretty tipsy myself for once in a long while (the occasion has warranted it) and my reflexes are so slow that I just _can't_ pull away when her lips land suddenly on mine and she's kissing me.

Bloody hell she's kissing me.

And a fire shoots through me that's more than just liquor-soaked tongues when I open my mouth to her, and I know shouldn't, shouldn't let myself because, _shit_ –

But I do, and she leans in, her hands on my shirt, and slips one of her hot little hands underneath the fabric.

And that's when the alarms start going off in my head so loud I can't ignore them any longer. I put my hand over hers, intending to extract it from my shirt, but it just sits there.

"Katniss," I say, voice rasping, and I sound desperate, so desperate and alone and aching for human contact, but this is me warning her.

"It's okay," she says, voice raspy too, and unsteady, but that's when I push her hand away from me because I know I must, that one of us has got to stop this madness and if it isn't going to be her, it had better be me, the forty-year-old mentor.

"No," I say then.

"It doesn't matter," she starts, trying to hide the hysterics creeping into the edges of her voice. "I'll be dead by the end of the Games anyway."

So that's how it was, then. She saw herself as a corpse, a corpse that – what, wanted to kiss me? That she could do whatever the hell she wanted without repercussions because she'd be _dead by the Games?_ But that would mean she'd wanted to kiss me in the first place. That was just absurd. Some flower of light began to burst out of my stomach at the thought, and I ignore it, but I can't help myself when I put my rough hand to her face and spit out, "Well it matters to me."

She pulls back, anger filling her features, and regards me for a minute before brushing her sleeve over her face that may have just leaked a few tears. She sits back on my lap and I suddenly realize she's still drunk, and put a hand to her back and grip her leg to steady her. My head is buzzing, from much more than just the alcohol.

A few more tears spill out from her eyes, and I get the urge to wipe them dry, but I don't, I stop myself, only then noticing that I'm moving my thumb up and down, like I'm consoling her or something, on her back with the hand I've put there.

"I can't stay here," she finally tells the floor. Her voice sounds more desperate than anything I've ever heard, and my heart is breaking because all I want to do is pull her back into me and kiss her into a deep sleep where Snow and his minions will never get to her, but I know there is no way any of that will ever happen.

And so I answer, like a smart-ass, "Well you shouldn't." And it goes unspoken, _but I want you to_.

She shuffles off my lap, nearly falling over, and then we just stand there, wavering slightly, staring each other down, one challenging the other to remember this, to bring this up in the morning.

"Need me to walk you?" I ask at last, not looking her in the eye, letting the sarcasm cover everything I don't want to admit to her.

"No," she says a bit coldly, then turns and disappears out the door where she came. She's got a bottle in her spare hand.

Taking her cue, I grab up the bottle still sitting half full on the table. I press it to my lips, staring at the door, daring the alcohol to burn away the taste of her. But I doubt even I could pull that one off.

I'm gonna have to keep it together on a whole new level if I'm gonna make it through the next round of these Games.

* * *

AN: Notice: I'm not sure how much more of this story I can write, so this may be all for a while. Then again, I thought that about the last chapter, and _viola!_ country music radio inspires _THIS._ (alone with you by jake owen, anyone?) So I derailed from cannon... how do you feel about it? (This is where I beg for reviews.)_ :)?_


End file.
